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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris bloody Johnson buying a kettle

WAKING upside down, dangling from one of the abbey bells, my foot tethered to the clapper with my ceremonial velvet sash, I make a mental note. 

As I dispatch plume after plume of vomit onto the medieval tiled floor far below, I resolve not to commence imbibing so early in the afternoons, and further to then cease doing so within 72 hours.

Crying out for assistance, I am untethered by a team of clerics and restored to my chambers where I read that Boris Johnson has advised those struggling with bills to buy a new kettle, an outlay which could save them ten pounds.

Saint Peter’s doubting dick, are you fucking shitting me? You must be. You’ve been shitting us all, these past couple of years. You only became Prime Minister for a bet with your old Eton chum Sir Thomas ‘Todger’ Broughton that you could stay in office for two fucking years before they threw you out, the same way you get thrown out of everything you venture into, steaming cunt that you are! It’s just one long fucking chortle to you, isn’t it? The pandemic, the cost-of-living crisis – a million tragedies is just a trigger to set your oily jowls and fatuous lips quivering with mirth! I hope you end your days naked, suspended from a lamppost, entrails spilling from your slit belly, I seriously fucking do!

Lord Alan Sugar has been venting his opinions on employees who choose to work from home. He considers them shirkers, more likely to be watching TV than being productive.

You really are a pubic-faced pillar of piss. How the fuck did you make your fortune, you silly twat? Try to think further than you can jerk your fucking knee. Home computers, that’s right! You were the very fucking manufacturer of the instrument that enabled people to work from home and now you’re shitting on the idea? It’s like that Dyson dick complaining about people using hand dryers when they could just use paper towels! Arsehole!

Former Labour MP and ardent Brexiter Kate Hoey has weighed in on the energy crisis. Simply wear jumpers, she advises.

Or failing that, become an MP and make an enormous fucking six figure expenses claim so that the fucking taxpayer has to foot the bill and wear jumpers to make ends meet! How the fuck did a reactionary, Brexit-loving, Farage-fondling fucking hypocrite like you ever end up in the Labour party? It’s a Mandelson-sized mystery, that’s for sure!

Finally, the Festival of Brexit has not been quite the success envisaged, having achieved just 0.36 per cent of the attendance of 66 million that they had anticipated. Organisers have blamed the politicisation of the event.

Yeah well, I fucking get it. Church attendance figures are right down because the vicars keep banging on about fucking religion, which bores the tits off people but what are you gonna do, eh? A church is a fucking church and a Festival of Brexit’s a Festival of fucking Brexit! No getting around it! I mean, I get the gist of what you’re saying, we could have had a brilliant Festival of Brexit if it weren’t for Brexit! Could have all gone differently, and we could have had a Festival of Thank Fuck We Didn’t Listen To Those Lying Cunts Johnson, Hoey And Farage! But it fucking didn’t, did it? 

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Austin Powers and other classic movies I'm digitally adding myself to, by Taylor Swift

THE patriarchy in Hollywood has denied me the chance to be a movie star, even though Cats wasn’t my fault. So I’m cutting out the middleman and putting myself in these: 

Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, 1997

I love everything about this movie – the Britishness, the innuendos, the bad teeth – and force my boyfriends to watch it with me at least once a week. Tom Hiddleston said ‘this is psychological torture, Taylor, like interrogations at Guantanamo Bay’ and we split. Anyway, I’m a love interest for Scott Evil. I do a French accent.

Jaws, 1975

Caught the original, loved it, got my full-time special effects house on the job. Three old geezers on a boat, drinking beer and bleeding, with a rubber shark? It needs me. I turn up as a friendly seal called Suzie, with my recognisable face and mannerisms, wisecracking and quipping ‘I think you’ve got something in your teeth’ to the shark. A simple change that really elevates the movie.

Reservoir Dogs, 1992

Mr Blonde, Mr Pink and Mr White? Meet Little Miss Mauve. The diamond thieves just got an injection of glamour. I’ve taken a few liberties, like doing the ear-cutting scene myself as a full dance routine in sparkly leotard with six backing dancers. Also, we get away with the heist and I shoot that snitch-ass motherfucker Mr Orange in the head myself.

Shine A Light, 2008

Martin Scorcese filming the Rolling Stones in concert? Except with Mick Jagger digitally replaced with my own self doing the same moves and singing the same songs? Because that crusty bitch snubbed me at a party and this is my revenge? So the TikTok generation forgets he ever existed? Don’t fuck with Taylor.

Stalker, 1979

A long, mystifying, Soviet arthouse science fiction film about a journey through the Zone where the laws of physics don’t apply. I’m in every scene of the new version, but never say anything and don’t influence the plot. Nobody comments or notices me. I’m just there.

Back To The Future III, 1990

The first two movies? Don’t need me. The third one? Could really do with the leg-up. And with my country music background, the Wild West’s a perfect fit: the cowboy boots, the corsets, the cholera. I play a hard-drinking Irish sheriff called Molly McDuff, there are seven or eight new musical numbers, it’s four hours long and kind of a mess. To compensate I’ve digitally created myself winning the Palm D’Or for it at Cannes.

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